


Ripening

by cuntoid



Category: Castle Rock (TV)
Genre: Breast Play, Coercion (kind of), Death, Dubious reality, F/M, Forced Orgasm, Hallucinations (or are they?), Impregnation, Time Manipulation, Witnessing Death, absolute chaotic violence, dubcon, eldritch fuck, feeling completely out of touch with reality, forced impregnation, intense religious imagery, literally it's barely there, mention of eyeball gore, very slight exhibition, very very very light gore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-12
Updated: 2020-12-12
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28022160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuntoid/pseuds/cuntoid
Summary: Molly asks you to keep an eye on The Kid in her bare apartment. You do your best, and so does He.
Relationships: The Kid | Shawshank Prisoner/Reader
Comments: 3
Kudos: 49





	Ripening

“Does it hurt you?”

The Kid startles you from your reverie, staring off into the street from a motel room window. It’s only supposed to be for the night or two, somewhere for Him to stay during... whatever the hell is going on. Molly never tells you anything—she only asked in her timid, pleading way if you’d ‘watch Him’ for a few hours. Keep Him company.

Sure. Of course.

Regret filled you when you walked into the room just as it fills you now, sharp as bile on the back of your tongue. There’s something wrong with Him.

“Does _what_ hurt me?”

“When you ripen.”

You turn to watch Him unfold his impossibly long legs, stretching spiderlike over the mattress until the hem of His shirt draws up over His belly. The room stills, your lungs rendered useless as you digest what He could mean, the only thing He _could_ mean. Forcing yourself to look out the window is your only savior from answering Him, from showing him the way your flush crawls up your throat and stains your cheeks.

“You say some weird shit, you know that?”

In the street, a car careens out from the safety of the painted lines and smashes into another, crunching into it as easily as a soda can as metal scrapes against metal. The sound is sickening. It reverberates in your brain like a bell as the offending driver stumbles bloodied and confused into the street, clutching their head.

“There’s nothing weird about your nature,” He murmurs. His soft breath is on the back of your neck, electric as the tingle zipping up your spine. Heat comes off in waves, distorting the air around Him. Everything feels heavier. Hotter. Time drags and stretches into some unknown distance as He leans over and His lips are _just_ shy of your throat. He sniffs there like a fucking dog, long, wistful inhales that end in little sighs, and while it’s not quite enough to shake you from your precarious position, it’s enough to make you flinch. In front of you, the window looms and the air fills with the sound of sirens and lights up red, blue, red, blue as emergency vehicles skid into place. An ambulance roars down the street and hits a curb, swerving into two pedestrians. The Kid watches you. His eyes are huge, pupils expanded so far open you could crawl into them. Outside, people are screaming. “I can smell it too, you know. From across the room. But _here_ … it’s _so. Much. More._ ”

This time, lips brush skin, and it’s like the delicate passages through which you breathe try to tangle into themselves, strangle themselves, stomach flipping as the urge to scream blinds everything else. The urge to scream, and the urge to lean into it. He grabs your arm and you can’t help but stare outside at the unfolding scene, blood smeared on the street. Crowds of people clamoring to help, to cry, to slip on the gore and crack their skulls on the asphalt.

“Something’s happening,” you mumble. Thoughts mush together and melt into one another, helpless as you are. There’s more you want to say, more screaming to be freed from the echo-chamber prison of your brain, rendered absolutely useless under His long, gangling figure looming over your shoulder. His fingers are like spiders creeping over your skin.

“ _Yes_.” He whispers it right up against your ear and presses your face against the windowpane. You wait for more, but it never comes; you just allow Him to knot those long fingers in your hair and tug at your shorts. Every thing He does is gentle – it’s soft, slow, conscious of your comfort somehow as He slides your shorts down your thighs and pauses to feel them, to test the soft, generous flesh in His hands. Squeezing but not hurting. His breath picks up as he inches His fingers up, up, tracing the delicate seam of your cunt before spreading it open to explore there. Your peripheral vision is split by horror, the developing madness outside versus this stranger with two big fingers knuckle-deep in your cunt.

Nudging around grants Him sounds, pathetic little sounds that won’t stay inside despite being afraid. Every inch of you shakes with it, a pervasive, inborn aversion to the beckoning in your body and to His breath, His lips, His touch, the sound of Him pulling at the elastic band of His sweatpants with one hand until they’re down His slim legs. Nothing feels real. Outside, there’s shouting and gunfire. Policeman slip out of their vehicles with guns drawn, yelling warnings, hiding behind the cocked doors of their cars and the cocked guns in their hands, and He presses gently up against your body as natural as ever. The feeling of His creeping, crawling fingers is replaced by something hotter, thicker, wetter. Slicked over as ready as you are, inexplicably, and only a handful of minutes ago seems like years away. It seems like some indeterminate length of time that’s impossible to measure, a time so near to you in which you weren’t pressed against the glass watching people die in the street while He ruts the head of his fat dick up between your thighs like it belongs there. If it doesn’t, you’re not letting Him know – you arch your spine, work against the way He holds you captive. You encourage him with your traitorous body, sinful as it ever was. Wasn’t this what you were raised to avoid? Temptation? This temptation is different than any that might present itself to you; suddenly, you’re parched, confused, as though you’ve been read your own death in the clouds and now must suffer the ultimate consequence, the sacrifice you must make to save the people around you. So many of them have already died. Bodies lie in the street amidst the gunfire and He lowers His hips, lifts them again, nudges against you wet and hot and desperate. So ready to crucify yourself upon this particular cross.

One sure thrust, slow, achingly so, connects the both of you in one collective hush of breath, overlapping each other. It’s somehow louder than the horror outside. A horror only a glass pane away from you, and you wonder faintly if somebody out there has seen you. If somebody out there is near death and glancing up at this particular window, watching Him thrust into you slowly, surely, so thick and deep and hot it’s irresponsible to deny how it drags these sounds up through your throat. With your cheek pressed against the glass, with your hurried breaths, it’s hard to see past the fog on the glass. It’s a blessing. One blessing among few, that He should see fit to grant you this pleasure while bodies lie in the streets before you.

“You’re doing this.”

Your voice comes faint, comes in a question despite the both of you inherently knowing that it’s not a question at all. He finds it unnecessary to answer. He leaves your voice hanging in the air like cobwebs in the corners of the room, forgotten and yet undeniably there, waiting to be addressed. Without real sight into the frenzy outside, the voices become a little different. They bob and weave through the air in a way that’s hard to describe, the pitch of it all changing, warping, until it sounds almost inhuman. He rolls his hips smoothly up until he’s balls-deep, nudging painfully up against your cervix.

It’s hard not to whine, not to scrabble up on your tiptoes just for Him to yank you back down to endure, to be docile for Him. Ice races down your spine and the screaming melts together like flesh in a vat in the air outside. The delirious thought that they might seep in through a crack whispers from the back of your mind. Maybe they’ll seep in like a miasma, like a poisonous cloud, and pull the both of you fully into insanity. It sure fucking feels like that’s happening right now, while He pants in your ear, while He sinks his fingers into the flesh of your hips and _lifts_ , and the force with which you slam your palms into the windowsill to catch yourself sends stabbing electricity up to your elbows. There you hang, barely able to scrape your toes against the thinning carpet. The meat of your palms will be bruised tomorrow. The harder he fucks you apart, the harder your head rams into the glass. Your brow bone smacks into it hard enough that a vision of the windowglass shattering plays on a reel in your brain. There’s a tangible ache of pain imagining the jagged shards driving into the viscous orb of your eyeball in a horrific mockery of His invasion of your body. But nothing breaks; nothing pops the fibrous sclera to explore the ruined cave of your socket. There’s only the throbbing pain in your eyebrow, the smeary condensation from your breaths. He laughs somewhere behind you and presses His lips against your spine.

“Are you afraid?”

He drags His tongue up the faint knobs of bone, drools on you, and it’s _searing_. Between your thighs, His cock stretches you until it feels like He might see fit to rip you apart with it. He looms over to where you can just barely see Him from the corner of your eye, through the blur of hair and sweat, but His face doesn’t _look_ like a face.

It looks wrong, so unbelievably _wrong_ that you forget how to swallow, how to breathe. Outside, the screaming takes on a choral quality that makes your stomach lurch. Your arms shake so violently that it’s impossible to do anything. There’s nowhere to go and nowhere else to look, and what would happen if you stopped looking? Stopped trying to focus on the fleshlike ripples of His face, how it _changes_? Would He see fit to punish you for avoiding it, for choosing to preserve the last strands of your slipping sanity? How fucking _long_ can He _keep you like this,_ it _hurts, it ACHES._

He yanks His hips back and the sharpness with which He leaves you empty summons a shriek, embarrassing, high-pitched and cut short as he hefts you up from under your ribcage and throws you on your back to the floor. His face looks normal again but for that soft, mocking smile, His eyes that glow in the dim. Red and blue flash faintly from outside, washing over His face. The shadows cling to the gaunt hollows under His cheekbones, around His eyes and under the generous bottom lip. They stain His face like a disease, like even the darkness can’t resist giving Him what He asks for. It’s all too easy to lift your chin as to give better access to your throat. You imagine Him raking those razortipped teeth across the flesh there and He listens, somehow, reading the tracks in the sand, poring over your mind like a good book. Warmth floods up from your arched spine, from the violent rejoining of your bodies, and the bone-rattling thrum spreading through you almost blocks out the sounds of horror and death and _Other_ , sounds that don’t seem to belong out there beyond the streaked window. Something looms on the other side despite it being stories up in the air. It’s almost like faces, and it’s not like faces at all; it’s caught somewhere in the projection of your mind’s eye, like it’s channeling through that thrum to paint itself into your visual cortex. It is, and it most certainly _isn’t_. He grabs your chin and yanks you back to focus, back to His eyes, and what color were they before? Blue? Gold?

Now they’re black, wide black discs of absolute void. They scare you. They frighten you more than the _things_ in your mind ( _in the windows)_ or the people ( _THINGS_ ) outside.

“ _Are you afraid, sh’veen-tete?_ ” His breath in your face is sweet and stale and like the earth, like earth that hasn’t been turned in millennia, in longer. He no longer sounds so aloof and disengaged. The widening pits of those eyes beat down against yours like twin moons, growing so large in the whites that it’s disturbingly cartoonish. It’s hard to nod with His long fingers wrapped around your face, and your answer is meek, too small for Him, too modest, so He _squeezes_. “ _You scaaaared?_ ”

“YES.”

He moans and the thrum sighs with Him, a fluttering, quaking pleasure that forces you to shake underneath him. It’s like baptism. It’s like being washed through in His name, it’s like worship. The openness with which you accept Him, even in your paralyzing fear, is monumental. Those sounds mingling together become lost. Your bottom lip smashes against your teeth and you taste your own blood in His kiss. It burns your tongue and has him sucking, nipping at your lip until it truly hurts.

“It’s exactly how you wanted it, isn’t it?” It’s not a question worth answering with your voice or even your thoughts – before it’s offered as a possibility, He’s driving His sharp hipbones into the soft, sore flesh of your ass, cunt so full it seems impossible that you should take all of it, and yet He fucks you balls-deep with each vicious thrust. “Could tell, could _smell it on you_. Greedy. Disgusting. They usually want it, oh, they _love_ to have it, but you? You _stink of it_. It’s dangerous to be so steeped in perversion, you know… we can taste it. It _draws us_. And you’re _so fucking lucky, aren’t you, so lucky to have been FOUND by me, CHOSEN for this_.”

Mocking. Tittering and grinning with His teeth, teeth that are sharp and sometimes not, too many fucking teeth. Too wide of a smile for the slim structure of His face. The tightening coil of heat in your belly twists so painfully that He whines with you, the sound of it frightening coming from that grinning slash of his mouth. The carpet underneath you feels as though it’s ripping your flesh, rubbing the low of your back raw, your shoulder-blades, and as if it weren’t enough, not enough _damage_ , He threads your hair through his fingers and _YANKS_.

It’s awful. It makes you scream and He hovers over you with His parted lips, with saliva dripping off the corners and onto your face, into your mouth, as though He means to consume the sounds you’re making. His eyes. His fucking _eyes_ , even more grotesque in the fuzzy edge of your vision. With your throat arched back like that, all you can see is the fucking window and the kaleidoscope of police lights. Giving it attention seems to summon those noises back, the sounds of agonized chaos in the streets.

Words pour unbidden from your mouth, face scrunched and sweaty and screwed up into a grimace of pain, your own teeth bared, and He foregoes your hair to grab at your breasts. Pinching, slapping, squeezing hard enough to punctuate your rambling with sobs, He finds clear pleasure in this new venture. Somehow, He fucks you even _harder_. The words are pleas; they’ve got to be coming from somebody else, some pathetic, disembodied begging. It _can’t_ be you, not with the divine and ungodly pain of Him splitting you in half, not with all that fire in your guts and in the way He bruises your tits with his big hands. No fucking way.

But it is. _Please fill me up fill me up please fill me with cum please please. Give me purpose. Show me show me show me fill me fill me please please please_.

“Good. _Oh, that’s GOOD._ ”

His pupils are so large that there’s barely any sliver of white left in them. There is no dancing reflection of the flashing blue-and-red, no reflection of _anything_. You could brush your lips up against the long lashes and push your tongue right into the void there. The images racing through your mind make no sense; they cycle violently through with each pound and pulse, each warning squeeze in your cunt as you clamp down on His dick, like you couldn’t bear to let Him leave your body, and you _can’t_. You absolutely _can’t_ bear it, can’t shy away from the image of His cum leaking out of you while the rest seeps up into your belly and takes root there. He shudders and allows you to push up and meet his mouth, and He tastes cold as the night air. He tastes like static.

“ _You’ll have my seed, whoreling_. Don’t you worry. But… _mmm,_ but _first_ …”

He’s not doing anything different. It’s the tilt of His head, expectant, patient. The burning hot coil in your guts twists and twists until it can’t anymore, and under those eyes, under His explicit and unspoken demand, you come completely undone. It’s painful, the force with which every last muscle between your navel and knees tightens and _RELEASES_ , all at once, rippling around His cock like you mean to keep it inside – and don’t you? In the swirling, sinful, gorgeous haze, don’t you mean to milk Him free of every last drop the same way He seems to be doing to you? Your hips roll of their own accord. It takes zero thought to buck back against Him, to scream and whine and cry and float with the unending twitch-and-pulse inside of you, until He’s so ungodly engorged it _aches_.

“ _Now_ ,” He whispers, tongue in your ear. “ _Now, you shall have me, cunt. Stupid thing. Little vessel._ ”

It feels good and it doesn’t at all. It hurts _so much_. It feels as though time ends, like He’s found a little pocket away from time to keep you in. _Time doesn’t serve Him_. That’s the thought that loops through your mind as He spills inside of you, hot and thick and pushed right up against your cervix so that it takes. _Time doesn’t serve Him. Time doesn’t serve Him, doesn’t serve Him, time doesn’t –_

And then it’s over. There are aftershocks, the timid little pulses as you remember how to breathe, as He slows to a stop and seems to enjoy the feeling of your limp body against Him. He caresses your hair, licks your temple where tears have tracked their way down to your hairline. He kisses your throat where he’s bitten and choked you. Even His fingers caress you all over, over your sore breasts, your hips, your thighs. He only leaves your body when time catches up, when it seems He’s stayed inside you too long.

You don’t get up for several minutes, maybe. Maybe not. It’s so hard to discern, now, after having traveled the long and short of timelessness, after having lost track of all reality. It’s only when your nipples stiffen in the cold that you lean up on your elbows and look around. He’s pensive, quiet, staring out the window with His clothes on. He makes no effort to acknowledge you as you rise clumsily up and re-dress, taking a loose inventory of the bruises already flowering over your flesh. Everything hurts. Everything _glows_.

Even several feet away, even now that His face looks normal, you’re afraid. You’re more afraid now than before, somehow, scared that any second He’ll come… what? Attack you?

Eat you?

“I have to… uh, I know I told Molly that –”

“She’s coming.”

“What?”

The Kid barely takes his eyes away from the window, not for more than a passive glance. When He does, they’re normal. They’re pale blue, lifeless, vacant as ever.

“She’s coming now. She’ll be inside in a moment.”

Maybe you’re stupid. Maybe it’s just that intoxicating feeling of recklessness, of doing something so stupid dangerous that it’s a thrill in itself, walking over to stand beside Him and peek out the window. Moments ago – what _is_ a moment, exactly? – you’d had your face pressed against this window. The street is mostly cleared, ambulances gone. A few cops remain to clean up the area. A couple people in hazmat suits clear the street of blood, dark enough to be mistaken for oil in the night. It’s almost like nothing tonight has truly happened. If not for the few remaining police, if not for the warm cum leaking into your underwear, you might have imagined all of this.

Might have.

On your way out, you don’t offer Him a goodbye. You make your strides long, fast, sure that His eyes are on you. In the very back of your mind, you can see Him smiling at you. You refuse to look back and see, but you know. You know He is.

Molly runs into you just outside the door. She smiles uneasily, makes excuses for her night. She keeps glancing between you and the open doorway, eyebrows knitting together as she speaks, and you know that she knows _something_ , that she can taste it on the air as sure as the Kid could. You smile, nod, exchange pleasantries and excuses and go on your way. You can’t look back. No looking back, not once, not at all. You _can’t_.

Outside on the street, it smells like iron, like pennies. Those sounds still swirl in the back of your brain like a glitch, and high up, in a window, He stares down at you, smiling.


End file.
